Hello, Olaf
by ForeverAlwaysTogether
Summary: He was always so good at starting fires. A one-shot of Olaf and Kit's second-to-last kiss.


**AN: Full disclosure, I have never read the ASOUE books. I binged the Netflix show and couldn't stop thinking about these two. I apologize if they are OOC or if details are incorrect from the book series!**

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The man before her was a stranger: a word which here means "someone who used to be of the utmost importance but has since been lost or changed to the point of being unrecognizable." Of course, his physicality was not strange or unrecognizable. Despite the years that had passed like shooting stars—bright and fleeting—she knew who he was instantly.

He was dirty and grimy; his clothes ill-fitting and old. So different from the man she had known long ago. His desire for fancy things glowed, made obvious by the fact that the clothes he wore—however stained, dirty, and haphazardly patched together—resembled a tailored suit. Once, long ago, she had straightened his tie in a similar, if nicer, suit before going to the opera. What a tragic and unfortunate night that had been.

"Hello, hello, hello." The words are a drawl, a slur, a lackadaisical series of syllables thrown together without proper articulation or elegance: both things of which she knew him perfectly capable.

The gag prevented her from the socially polite response of returning his greeting.

He raises his eyebrow at her rudeness, before those intellect eyes of his focus on the gag and he lets out a cough-like laugh at her predicament. Of course, the predicament was entirely his doing, although judging by the slight widening of his eyes when she had first been tossed into the room by his henchperson, she had not been the person he had been hoping to ensnare.

His flicks his wrist dismissively to whoever is behind her. The causal dismissal is unlike him—no showboating, boasting, interpretive dance number, or grand speech. No comedy or theatrics. She is not sure if she should be relieved or concerned.

The door clicks shut behind her.

"I must admit," he says slowly, "you, Snicket, are the last person I had expected to see before me, all tied up like a birthday present." He pauses, reconsiders. "Well, perhaps not the _last._ "

She sighs into the gag, not bothering with an attempt at words when she knows he won't be able to understand her. It's just as well—she is not sure what to say to him anyway.

He cocks his head as he looks at her, blue eyes scanning her face and body leisurely—the way he used to when they were children and he wanted to ruffle her feathers. The phrase "ruffle one feathers" refers to the way a bird might puff out or rearrange their feathers at the sight of a predator, or when they are feeling nervous, agitated, or anxious. Since humans are neither birds nor in possession of feathers, when said about a human, this phrase leans to the latter definition of making someone feel nervous, agitated, or anxious.

And, at the moment, he was succeeding in ruffling her feathers.

Count Olaf made no movement to remove her gag, instead opting to pull a nearby chair closer to himself, his long fingers easily spinning the piece of furniture so he could sit on it backwards while he looked at her.

Kit Snicket wondered what he was thinking. There had once been a time when she would not have needed to wonder. Either he would volunteer the information immediately as it occurred to him, or she would find herself simply knowing. There had been a time when they were perfectly aligned and in sync—two halves to a single whole.

His facial expression is twisted, as if he hasn't made up his mind how he wants to feel about her presence. He knew, of course, about her involvement that night at the opera house years and years ago. It mattered not that she had not known the exact details of Lemony and Beatrice's plan; when it came down to the details surrounding the schism and how it had directly affected Olaf, she knew that it didn't matter whether or not she knew what her brother and his love had planned. At the end of the evening, someone died and she… she had supplied the murder weapon.

Olaf's eyes harden. He had made up his mind.

"You really are getting in my way, Snicket," he growls. "I do not plan on being distracted by an old associate when I have must more important things to deal with."

It shouldn't sting. The word "associate". It is neutral and emotionless. A courtesy of him to erase their past with that singular word. Associates need not worry themselves with the messy business of falling in love.

"I'm sure your brother told you all about my schemes. It's no use trying to stop me; this is my fifth one, and we both know that the fifth time is the charm."

She can't help herself. She laughs into the gag.

Not the annoyed chuckle of a Volunteer working through his or her bindings and concocting a brilliant and daring escape. Not a manic laugh of a hostage who is in fear of his or her life.

No, Kit Snicket laughs like a woman who is so overwhelmed by the sight of a person she used to love, so full of unnamable and complicated emotions that they can no longer be contained by sheer force of will and stage a mutiny in her mind, escaping through her lips in laughter. Uncharacteristic tears form in her eyes and she quickly blinks them away before he can notice—he _cannot_ notice— and her shoulders shake from the laughter.

His eyes narrow angrily at her. Leaning forward, he snatches the gag and harshly rips it away from her mouth, the fabric burning against her skin with the friction of his violent pull.

"Stop. Laughing."

"Hello, Olaf."

He blinks. "Hello, Kit."

She hates herself, but she missed the sound of her name on his lips.

The silence between them is deafening. Being in the presence of a person you used to love but whom you no longer do is a difficult thing to describe. Some feel sadness at the loss of love, the way you might miss a person after they have died. Some feel anger. Some unease. For Kit Snicket, sitting tied in a chair before her ex-fiancé left her with a pit in her stomach that is difficult to put into words.

If she were to try to explain it, Kit might ask you to imagine standing on a beach and wading a few feet out into the water. The roll of the waves against your legs is gentle and comforting. These waves do not force you to back up or stumble, but rather they are soft reminders that you are standing in a body of water. Then, she might ask you to look to the horizon. A large wave glides across the surface of the water, slowly gaining momentum and height as it surges toward you. It clear that this wave far surpasses you in height and power as it continues on its path to face you head on. _That_ is how Kit Snicket felt. The slight fall in your stomach as you watch the wave break above your head; that split second right before it crashes into you and forces you beneath the water in a spray of sea foam and sand.

"Have you gotten out of the rope yet?"

She holds out the rope his henchperson had used to secure her, schooling her lips to not curve up into a sheepish or cunning grin the way she wants them to.

He rolls his eyes angrily, snatching it away from her, not bothering to tie her up again himself. He had never been successful in knot tying classes. Or vocabulary lessons. Or other, finer elements of the VFD's careful program.

"Why are you here, Snicket?"

"This is where your henchperson deposited me."

He growls. "Don't play cute, Snicket, I don't have the patience for it. Haven't had the patience for anything pertaining to you or your family in years. What are you playing at?"

"I was unaware we were playing a game, Olaf. Care to enlighten me on the rules, procedures, and regulations?"

Olaf stands abruptly, throwing the chair away from him violently, the sudden movement making Kit jump to her feet. But she does not flinch when he stalks toward her. Not even when his hand wraps around her throat or when he slams her back into the door behind her, his body dangerously close to her own.

"I'll tell you the game I'm playing, Snicket. It's called Revenge, perhaps you've heard of it? The rules are simple. Someone took something of infinite value and importance away from me. _Violently_. And so, I won't stop until I _ruin_ them. _Violently_."

Vaguely, Kit knows she ought to feel at minimum, a glimmer of fear. Because the man before her was a stranger in all ways except his physical features, even if they were twisted into a face of sinister rage. He was on the wrong side of the schism. Had always had a tendency toward fire and flame. Lemony and Jacque warned her about him when they were children. He had proven them wrong. And later… proven them right.

He was a thief, an arsonist, a murder, a scoundrel. A fool, an egomaniac, a madman.

But, just as he had been unable to do when they were children, he was unable to scare her now. Even with his hand on her throat and her back, literally, against a door.

Perhaps that is why Kit Snicket closed her eyes and recited poetry.

"The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies Without the dying sun."

The silence that followed her recital was louder than the silence that had passed between them earlier. Olaf's hand briefly tightened its grip around her throat, before letting go. His fingers trace the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the contours of her collarbone. Kit keeps her eyes closed, letting herself imagine a time when Olaf would casually caress her simply because he could and not because he was retracing old steps.

"Let me see your eyes."

Her eyelids flutter open, her gaze locking onto his. They look at each other for eons, a word which here means "too long and yet not long enough".

Olaf takes a step toward her so their chests are flush against each other, his breath on her face as his says, "The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet light of a whole life dies, When love is done."

She gives him a small, sad smile.

"Hello, Olaf."

"Hello, Kit."

When he kisses her, she lets herself forget, if only for a moment, the man he has become. How he is so different from the one she used to love. Her fingers find the lapels of his dirty and ruined suit, pulling him closer to her. His hands roam her body, heating and burning her wherever he touches. He was always so good at creating fires.

She knows its pointless and useless and a waste to kiss him. Knows he does not deserve her forgiveness, nor will he ever earn it. She also knows that he knows the same about her.

His hands move to her face, cradling it as he kisses her before gently pulling away.

They are breathing softly, not moving, not speaking.

Olaf tilts her head down and presses a kiss to her forehead before resting his against hers. "Before this is over, Snicket, I am going to kiss you once last time." He says it with such an air of confidence, that she somehow believes him.

He steps away from her, turns his back and walks away. "Don't get caught again, Snicket. It might not be me who you're brought to next time."

Her hand finds the door handle without looking. Her eyes are still fixed on the man before her. Ruined and dirty clothes, unkempt and untidy hair. (Had she caused that? She couldn't be certain).

Kit nods to herself once, turns and slips quietly out the door.

Had Count Olaf turned to watch her go, perhaps Kit Snicket would have seen his fingers pressed against his lips, as if trying to determine if what had just passed between them had transpired. And perhaps, he would have seen a glimmer of silver in her eyes that would mirror a similar glint in his.

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 **Poem: "The Night has a Thousand Eyes" by Francis William Bourdillon**


End file.
